


Kingdom

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Multi, Mythology References, One Shot Collection, Short attention span, Weird stories, short pieces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6364090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood does not kill blood</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kingdom

Jaime looks into the gaping abyss, eyes trying to catch a glimpse of the famed court of the fallen. But all there is, is darkness. No sound, nor movement comes to him from the world beyond and he looks back upon his fair sister in silent question. Cersei, her eyes aglow, hands him the single golden apple, freshly plucked. He takes the offering and hides it away.

“No more than the time you’ve promised,” she reminds him, the dying embers of a smile still upon her face. “’Tis dangerous in his court, lover.” That reminder he does not need. Jaime is aware of the path he has stepped upon. And yet, he can no more still his fear than he could his love for the golden woman before him. “Return to me.”

It is but a nod she gets from him and an unspoken promise to return. No more can he give. Once more, he stares down into the bottomless pit and wonders at the frosty realm belowland, almost feeling the creeping cold. Goldhanded Jaime takes a deep breath before he hurls himself over the edge, the blood thrumming in his veins like a savage dance.

The fall is endless.

When he opens his eyes he stands before a wide river, icy water lapping at his feet. The bank is deserted. It seems that only he has travelled to the Trident at the edge of existence. Beyond, the mists of the Crowlands rolls and coils. He looks down into the darkened waters. Barely can he make out the pebbles upon its bottom.

Without anything better to do, he sits down upon the rocky shore and looks into the still lingering mists. What use to keep the gates from his eyes? He does not scare as easily as a mortal would. But the bitter taste of ash-bones lingers in the air, disconcerting; a reminder that he does not scare easily, but some scares merit fright. Jaime searches himself for the coins when he finally catches glimpse of the rowing figure. The coins fall into the water with a splash.

A curse dies upon his lips. Reaching out into the water, he winces at the cutting current and digs his fingers into the sharp pebbles. A fistful of dirt is what he pulls out and within it lie the coins. The ferryman looks him up and down with a curious glint in those flinty eyes but says not a thing. He holds his hand out for the price he’d been promised since the dawn of time and grabs greedily the payment.

Jaime steps into the barge, but does not sit down. Though he cannot see it, he feels that another has climbed aboard as well. The wood creaks and the boat sinks slightly. So he stands, unwilling to share a seat with whichever mortal has climbed down from the Midgardens. The ferryman rows them into the thickening mists, a hum hanging in the air.

For how long he stands upon the face of the trident, Jaime cannot tell. He thinks about his lover and the promise he has made and wonders at another pair of lover, cursing in his mind the dictates of the High King and his netherworld rivals response. What manner of creatures are they to keep apart the light and dark of twilight and dawn he cannot say. What he can say is that no longer is it a matter to be laughed at behind one’s hand.

They reach the gates in time for the great Wolf to be seen snatching from the sky the only source of light. A pale amber-like crystal should have guided his way. But now, its absence a blackened wound upon the heavens’ flesh leaves him with nothing but his own eyes.

Jaime steps off of the boat and gives Domeric a hard stare. The boy calmly rows away. The ghost at his side cackles. He could have done a number of things, but Goldhanded Jaime chooses to ignore the jape and steps towards the great gates of the Wall. His fist bangs against the ice in thundering commands and to him the path opens.

In the door stands the bloodkin of his father, a child still in appearance. “What brings you here?” she questions, soft skin peeling from her eternally-bleeding wound. a pale imitation of his golden sister she makes way for him to pass her, but stands against the ghost. Jaime leaves her there, knowing what destination he must reach.

Until then, however, he must have a care not to find to lurking beast still waiting for those foolish enough to be lost in the realm of winter. Once more he hears a cackle from behind him. He does not turn, nor wonders. The ghosts of the Midgardens are free to roam these roads until the amber is back upon the skies.

Before him he sees rising the sole keep of the Night’s King. He takes heart at such a sight and hastens. If he can reach it fast enough, the wren caught in the rosebush might still flap her wings. And if her wings still flap then the all is well in the world. For now, and for the morrow and hopefully for the day after the morrow.

Something bumps into him, stopping his progress. Jaime looks down, ‘tis a small thing, wolf-like in appearance. It holds one paw up, scratching against his leg. He sighs and takes out a piece of bread he’s been keeping for the wren. He breaks a bit off of it and gives it to the creature. It purrs its gratitude and takes off without a glance back.

Jaime began to walk once more, closing in on his target. He can hear Cersei’s voice in his head, her presence still with him. There is an almost-smile upon his face. Jaime has reached the last gates/ He looks upon the black doors and holds one hand up.

But by themselves they spring apart for him and within he goes.

The long moans of the dead shake the stone-cairn of their dwelling. He looks about, trying to find someone who is not of the Midgardens. But it seems the master of the keep is within his hall, for no breath of life is about. Displeasure wars with impatience.

He takes the road leading to the left, remembering the Prince having told him it would lead to the spiralling stairs. He finds the stairs climbing down into an even darker abyss. How strange that the Night’s king would have need of two. Down he climbs as well.

The King awaits for him upon his frosted throne. At his side the Queen sits, head bent over the golden wool she ties to all souls living the realm so she might call them back when time comes. Only the man looks up from the work of his woman.

“Goldhand,” he says by way of greeting, or acknowledgement. The King looks back down.

Jaime has little patience for such play. “I have come for the Daughter.” Now the Queen looks up, worry written all over her pallid face. The two roses in her cheeks shine unnaturally in the low light. And onwards she looks no longer hard at work.

The King, seeing her distress, turns to Jaime once more. “The Daughter will not go with you.” It is the assurance in his voice that chafes at Jaime.

“Be that as it may; I would have it out of her mouth.” This the King cannot refuse him. Jaime looks challengingly at the man. “I have come long to see her.” Those who cross the Trident but are not meant for his realm may have one thing of him. “That is my request, oh, King.”

The King’s face flushes in anger. “If you will it, you may speak to her.” There, his duty done, he returns attention to the woman on his side fingers reaching out to untangle the long thread. Of course he would know that Jaime comes not for himself. He is no fool, despite what the High King would believe.

Bowing to the Giver of Gifts, Jaime strides out of the great hall into another smaller corridor. The ghosts swarm around him, their vacant eyes unseeing. He walks around them, making his way to the ascending stairs. Those are the ones, he tells himself. The Wren cannot live without light, her flowers should wilt and die, the grief-maiden.

He takes each stair at a time, mind reverting to the sickbed of the dying Prince. Who would have thought that a fool’s song should send them all in the dust? Who would have thought that the fires burning in the High King’s hall would be put out by the black-wound of sorrow? Not he, Jaime thinks, not he for his eyes had been on the fire of his sister. The Prince’s had turned to the cool flames of the Wren and her ice-flowers. The High King’s anger still boils, Jaime is certain.

He finds maiden chained with silver-gold bands to a bench no wider than the edge of a knife, her bent fingers as hard at work as her mother’s. Only she holds no one’s fate. She holds a heart. The bloodied fingers peel unsteadily at the pulsing thing as her eyes fall upon him. She does not stand, not does she speak.

A glimmer of light falls upon her face and he can see the thread piercing her flesh. The same golden thread her mother plucks. His stomach rolls. Her fingers still. He holds back the question which comes upon his own lips and strides towards her, pushing the door backwards so it might slam back into place. The echo thunders.

“Rose-maiden,” he calls to her, those eyes of rainy days holding with his own. “I come for the dawn. I come to take you with me.” A shake of the head is his answer. The chains drag against the ground. He gives a nod in return and pulls from his belt a dagger. “I see you know the blade.” They have secured her well and he knows not the reason why. The woman whimpers softly, the flowers in her hair shaking off their petals upon his golden hands. But he goes for it anyway, grabbing at the first of the chain, slicing through the silver-gold. And then he cuts the other. But still, the woman does not stand. Baffled, he gazes upon her once more.

The rose-maiden is no maiden his discerning eye tells him within moments. The girdle she wears is a third chain, one she’d hidden from his sight. His hand reaches out, but she slaps it away with her blood-stained one, the crooked fingers another blight he’s not considered.

The thread from her mouth he cannot cut with his blade unless he wishes to leave her without half her face. So Jaime carefully kneels before her, avoiding the sight of the festering heart-wound and reached out behind her, searching for a knot. He finds none.

Whatever had tied her, it is not aught he may cut off of her. So he sits down upon the thin-bench and looks at the heart of his friend. Her broken fingers still work upon the wound, pecking at the blackened flesh. “He needs it back,” Jaime tells her. “Did you know that?”

Lyanna, roses in her hair, looks up once more, silent as the stones. She holds the heart out for him to take, but Jaime can only tell her nay. “The one who took the heart must take it back.” She shudders and shakes her head. Her sewn lips move lightly, the thread pulling wounds open. “Death cannot die,” he points out to her. But it can suffer, they both know this.

She has stolen the heart. The High King she’d thought to force the handoff. If she came with the heart, he would slay her where she stood. Harm her. Her bloodied hand reaches out. Red against gold, her fingers leave their imprint. He allows his hand to be guided by hers.

And then he understands. “You would kill one for the other.” The woman shakes her head. She nods towards the heart. “Nay; I have told you. Only you can give it back.” Her shoulders drop. She seems to be thinking and then, at a long last she nods, but not before her fingers move against the bottom of his palm, the runes burning in his skin. “I shall try,” he promises.

But only because the Prince would will it. Only because her blood is his blood and Jaime’s blood as well. It seems enough for her. The girdle slides away from her middle, coiling like a serpent upon the ground. It has been two days by his count and the third is to come soon. They must leave. 

She plucks at the heart, the gore on her fingers spreading down the front of her dress as Jaime takes her into his arms, holding her up off of the ground. The gold on his hands is smeared with blood and the strong scent of icy-roses clings to the skin of her. Jaime swallows in discomfort and takes her without. The shades gave gathered at the door, blocking his path.

The sewn lips of the woman move, blood droplets sliding down her skin. The ghosts tremble and part, allowing his way. But no more than ten steps has he taken before ‘tis another he must face. The grim-battle warrior with his helm on, the son of Night and Winter has placed himself in the path.

“It cannot be,” he tells his sister, eyes upon her. “You shall never leave. The Fates will it.”

The Fates still dispute their dominance over the realms. What one Fate decided another undoes. Jaime smiles slyly at the man, allowing the Rose to her feet. “’Tis not she you ought to worry over, but me.” The dagger shall be on no use. He takes out his sword. The Night’s son brings out his weapon as well.

“I want not to spill your blood,” he warns, “but if I must, then upon these stones I leave you bleeding.”

“Others have tried,” his own answer comes, cocky and assured. What need has he of aught else. The bones of these others still litter the Midgardens. He supposes a conquest in the otherworlds is not to be scoffed at either.

The Fates must be squabbling again because his sword slices the armoured shoulder of his enemy and the Daughter of Death plasters her back against the wall so that the spraying blood will miss her. Her brother is more resilient, however, and goes in for another attack. But the Fates are indeed at war with one anther, spoiled sister, and they tug this way and that at the outcome until Jaime manages to enter their blind spot.

And then it is wolf blood to warm the stones.

In a bid of sisterly fervour, the woman runs to cover the wounded body of her brother, eyes begging his mercy. Blood does not main blood, Jaime tells himself, pulled her up and away. She follows obediently, might be knowing not what else she ought to do.

Without a great fearsome creature awaits. Upon the moment it sees Jaime its tail swishes in the air. Since the Wren shan’t be eating, Jaime throws the beast the rest of the bread. The toll paid, the wolf lowers so they might climb upon its back. They need to make a swift journey.

The gates of black await, with golden kin sitting in the shade as the amber upon the sky gives its glow.

She says nothing this time, only allows him to pass beneath the gates upon the riverbank.

Domeric grimaces at the sight of him, but allows both him and her upon his barge when Jaime gives him coin. They are ferried to the other bank of the Trident, not a drop of mist to be seen about. She is the last to step out of the both upon the rocky shore the hem of her skirts dragging into the freezing water.

Jaime takes her in his arms and calls out for his sister. She is bound to be waiting.

Above them the skies shake and rumble, the very fabric if existence tearing to allow the other’s intervention. A golden rope falls down, its end coiling at Jaime’s feet. ”Hold on,” he tells the woman, feeling her arms tighten around him. The strong smell of ice-roses burns into his nostrils. 

He climbs the best he can with the burden of her to drag along.

At the top awaits not only sweet Cersei, but the High King himself and his Queen and Jaime’s own m other. His ailing brother is sitting with his back against a tree, beads of sweat rolling down his skin. So many days without a heart; Jaime releases the Daughter and she stumbles to her feet, clutching the now clean heart within the palm of her hands.

The High King throws her a blood-chilling look, but the Queen places a hand against his arm. And Lyanna leaves his own side for Rhaegar’s, kneeling by the dying. It is with gentle fingers that she parts his tunic, , the fall of her hair hiding from their sight the gaping chest-wound.

The heart is pushed back within, a little bit at a time.

The Prince has eyes only for her, of course. Jaime does not begrudge the man his love-fascination. But the High King might. She has cost them a bloody battle and the Prince’s health. His own promise rings in his ears and he moves. But Rhaegar has already slung an arm around the woman, his thumb pressed to her sewn lips. The High King watches the two of them, his scabbard empty.

His own mother gives him a smile and the sword at her feet gleams with hunger in the sun.

But blood does not kill blood, Jaime tells himself, and smiles at his beloved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, it's not supposed to make sense.


End file.
